


Blood, Gold, Rose

by RonnaWren (orphan_account)



Series: The Lives and Loves of Republicans [1]
Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Clumsy Attempt at Weird Imagery, Hate Sex, I'm Sorry, M/M, The Lover You Deserve, What Have I Done, enemies to lovers (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 07:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8969884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/RonnaWren
Summary: One person's triumph is another's tragedy.
Reince forgets deliberately.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what the fuck this is.

He kisses him forcefully. Trump is surprised, backing away slightly as Priebus's tongue pushes against his. (He tastes warm and alive, an embodiment of the gold with which he surrounds himself.) "What the hell, Reince?" Trump splutters. "This is way more than you usually give me."

Indeed it was. Prior to this week, his kisses had been almost chaste, without any tongue. "My Party is doomed because of you," Reince replies, ceasing his assault on Donald's mouth.

"That's ridiculous. You Establishment types need people like me to make your party matter." Despite his complaints, Trump proceeds to back Priebus against the wall and grind into him with undeniable fervor.

"Oh, Donald, my darling," Priebus moans. "I have never needed anyone like this. You have ruined my future, and I will fuck you till you forget where Trump Tower is." And until I forget the way Paul looks at me ...

"Melania has never been this sexy," Donald responds a few minutes later, as Priebus takes his cock in his mouth, running his tongue deliriously over its length. "Maybe I should find a new bride," he adds distractedly, shuddering at Priebus's deliberate administrations. 

Priebus had probably been more drunk that night than all the intervening years since college. But midway through the RNC, he'd needed it. Fearmongering may be good politics, but damn, it was sickening.

As Priebus speaks to the restless delegates on the convention's last night, he can barely hold back his desperation. To Sally and the kids, he pleads, "I love you!" But in the fleeting silence that follows, his unspoken "please forgive me" fills the hall. 

Paul's eyes (so blue, so beautiful) drill into him, his face crumpling briefly into an expression of heartbroken betrayal. For a moment, Priebus wants to run from the podium, to embrace him and kiss that expression into a past that never was (even if Paul would have pushed him away in disgust), but he doesn't. Instead, he continues to speak of the patriotic future of the Party and the crimes of Hillary Clinton; the future remains fixed.

On some nights, he dreams of Republican nominee Hillary Clinton, with her gaffes and circumlocution, and every other bit of relatively inconsequential baggage. Truth be told, however, any candidate was ideal compared to his sometime lover. He emailed Clinton once, just after Trump's victory became inevitable: "I wish you would be our candidate." She never responded. (Okay, so he may have sent it from a pseudonymous account, with the subject "No Subject." The lack of response made sense, now that he thought about it.) He was left to hope that she would throw the race to him; thus far, however, it appeared to be going her way.

"Donald, please change," he implores, as they lie in post-coital bliss in their Cleveland hotel, "I alone can fix it" reverberating in his skull.

Donald grimaces in annoyed confusion. "Why? It's gone great so far. Really great."

"You must understand! The general election is nothing like the primaries! You have to win! I need you to win!"

Donald gently massages Reince's shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll win."

What nonsense had that been? After the feud with the Khans and the apparent throwing out of a baby from a rally—though it hadn't happened as the raw video appeared to show—and the implicit hint at Hillary's assassination, Priebus nearly reached the end of his patience.

His vice-presidential pick, the forgettable Mike Pence, was thus far worth nothing.

Priebus had been willing to overlook most of Trump's stumbles. In the first week of August, when he did not endorse Paul, however—

"Endorse Paul Ryan, or I will cut all funds that the RNC is currently sharing with your campaign!" Priebus rages. "I promise you, it will happen. You do not refuse to endorse the Speaker of the House for reelection. How dare you!"

Shaking his head, Donald smirks. "You want to fuck him, don't you?" he goads.

_You have no idea. He is a rose, delicate and alluring. His scent is like a thousand summers. His petals will never open for me._ Instead of saying any of this, he allows himself to droop. "That is irrelevant. Please endorse Paul. You'll need him."

"Show me how much you need me, and I'll do whatever you want," Donald replies, his expression triumphant.

Clearly, Donald's bargain had been worth little.

"Please," Priebus chokes, as he and Donald exchange kisses prior to the emergency meeting in Orlando. "Please pivot!"

"I'll win, Reince," Donald assures him for the millionth time. "You know how messed up Crooked Hillary is. I can beat that." 

"I want to believe you," Reince admits. "Don't disappoint me."

"I would never do that." Donald strokes Reince's twitching, throbbing cock, looking eager. "Anyway, why should I change? You want me because I'm campaigning this way." 

"Mmm," Reince manages, too overwhelmed by the intense pleasure of Donald's hand job to be more coherent.

"Isn't this tremendous?" Donald asks over Priebus's uncontrolled mewling, as he brings him to the most drawn-out orgasm of his life.

"Oh god yes," Priebus moans.

"You're a fucked-up little bitch, you know," Donald moans in turn, as he too reaches completion.

"Tell me more," Priebus pants, and Donald does.

It is not until later that Reince realizes he had not imagined Paul in Donald's place once during the evening.

Landslide loss, the pundits predict. Where had the fear of Donald's ascendancy gone?

Landslide victory, Donald predicts. Where had logic gone? Had logic ever been?

Reince emails Hillary in desperation once more. "If Mr. Trump doesn't debate, could you refuse to debate, too? If you did that, you and Mr. Trump would have equal time."

As before, she does not deign to respond. (As before, he uses the fake account and a Spam-style subject. Really, why does he bother?)

September is a fantastic month, all in all. When (poor, beautiful, flawed, inept) Hillary coins the phrase of the month, he smiles. When she collapses two days later at the 9/11 memorial, he shakes his head in inadvertent dismay. For the first time, he can truly taste victory.

It doesn't last.

October 7th, Reince believes, is the day his doom is sealed.

“... Kiss them, grab them by the pussy. ... When you're a star, they let you do it."

No! Oh god no ... You utter fool—

He waits a day before going to see him. Republicans snarl, bridges crumble, and the blood of innocent candidates begins to flow. He needs to dam it; he needs to—

"So, here to tell me my apology wasn't good enough?" Donald asks, sullen and resentful.

"No." Reince takes a breath, steeling himself for the outburst he is certain will follow. "I'm here to tell you to drop out."

Trump's mouth falls open. "What? Even ... even you?"

"You could lose worse than Goldwater did," Reince continues. "I don't want you to experience that."

"No," Trump snaps. "Dropping out is losing, too. I didn't think I'd get this far, and I'm not giving up." He gazes at Reince pleadingly, almost like a dog seeking a reassuring scratch behind the ears. "You'll help me till the end, right?"

"Don't look at me like that," Reince says reluctantly. "It ... It won't work ..." Ignoring entirely his purpose for coming here–remembering only Donald's face, Donald's hands, Donald's mouth–Reince leans toward him, cupping his face in his hands and tenderly planting a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Yes," he croaks. "Yes, I'll help you, even if your defeat is the greatest Republican loss in a century."

_Yes_ , he thinks, as he disengages himself from Trump's embrace and strides from the room, _I have indeed ensured my doom._

*

"Is Paul Ryan a good Republican?"

"Paul Ryan is a great Republican, the Party's brightest star ..." 

*

The cheers are deafening. The crowd in the ballroom is thoroughly intoxicated. Reince stands in the middle of the room, shocked, grasping his glass of wine tightly enough to make his hand tremble. Around him, the revelers stream, borne forth on an ocean of booze, wildly dancing. They shout things like "we're gonna make America great again!" and "ooh, liberal tears are delicious!" and "Clinton is down! Long live Trump!"

When Trump takes the stage, the volume of the crowd somehow increases. "Thank you all!" Trump calls, gesturing expansively. "I especially want to thank Reince Priebus. Where's Reince? Get up here!"

Reince feels his heart race and the blood rush swiftly to his face, as if he is in love for the first time all over again. Donald hadn't asked anyone else to stand up there with him.

"Well, say something," Donald encourages, embracing him to the approval of the celebrating audience.

What? What the hell is he supposed to say? "Ladies and gentleman," he announces hoarsely, "The President-elect of the United States, Donald Trump!" They scream their excitement, and he makes his way back into the crowd, even more dazed than he had been. This isn't real, right?

As if in a dream, he hears words like victory and chief of staff and Reince is the best RNC chair in history. What do they mean?

*

"We reject the president-elect!" Signs about undocumented immigrants with pleas to be heard and protected by the new administration. Women with signs declaring their right to choose what they do with their bodies. Many people with Black Lives Matter T-shirts, demanding fair treatment by police. He watches this rally from a window. Their fear is palpable. It will be their blood that flows ...

He feels a twinge of regret, but it is gone as soon as it comes. He has won. This is the triumph of his life. He will be chief of staff. The pain of these people is no concern of his.

"I love you," he murmurs, turning from the window. Donald smiles. Throughout the room, his gold-plated possessions glitter. A wilted rose sits upon his desk. "Yes," Donald says at last. "I love you too." He kisses him forcefully.

**Author's Note:**

> One more needed to be written.


End file.
